


De Anima

by Herodia



Series: The Villa of Ormen [2]
Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Boner, Body Horror, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gore, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodia/pseuds/Herodia
Summary: Stefano is left to wander in the Union, until he gets bored even with his own work, then she finds him.





	De Anima

Left alone to walk upon the ashes of what once was The Union, it made him feel like an ancient ghost, walking on the newly uncovered remains of Pompeii. The city once so alive with the minds of people shaping it into perfection, was now torn apart and there was no one but him, left to rebuild it back to its forgotten grace.

Of course, Stefano’s idea of perfection was far from the one of MOBIUS’, he left behind all the attempts of punctilious realism in order to give his own imagination more space to create his perfect heaven. Now, when he wasn’t limited by already set up spaces, he couldn’t help it but still be tempted to bring them back. He found himself building a performance hall way too similar to the one in the theatre. Corridors mirrored those of the hotel he stayed in, when he first arrived to The United States. The space around him seemed awfully narrow, in the way that even high ceilings didn’t help taking away the feeling of walls tightening around him.

He tried to distract himself by creating more of his art. Giving himself brushes and chisels, instead of just using his mind to create. It helped. It occupied his mind almost enough to make him forget the creeping feeling of loneliness.

Alas, even that gave him only a momentary satisfaction. Every mistake of his hand could be easily repaired, the art was plain and way too perfect, and worse, it lacked an audience. For him, all of it was flawless, he could not find a single fault on his own. As much as he hates them, he would now give everything for a single critique. Even if these philistines cared for nothing but their social justice and tended to complain about his tendency of using only female bodies, instead of actually focusing on their beauty, he missed them now.

His works were also all too similar. The only inspiration he had left was brought by his own suffering and loneliness, which was not enough for him. He wished for more souls around, but it seemed like he lost the power of creating living beings. In a moment of despair, he started destroying all he had built, breaking the walls and leaving them floating in the void between the pieces of his precious art. There was no satisfaction in order, he thought. Only then, a particular wall, not so far away from the one he was standing on, caught his attention.

He was not as much fasticated by the wall itself, even thought it was decorated in rather nice victorian-like pattern. It was the door that concerned him. One that he did not put there. It did not even match his taste. It was all too plain and ordinary. He spawned next to it and,  fascinated, he touched it. It felt normal under his palm, so he slid his hand down the timber. There was hesitation, but driven by curiosity he opened the door at last.

It seemed like it was connected to another part of the Union, one that he had never seen before. He thought of Ruvik. Maybe this was some kind of his own safehouse? Or someone else he haven’t met yet was still stuck in the system? He entered the door, behind it was a dark corridor with multiple identical doors on every side. It seemed like something from a cheap horror film, the one so pretentious that even actors were tired of it and the only reason teenagers bought tickets on it was that there was a blood covered blonde without a bra in the trailer.

Going further into the room he let go of the door and it slapped behind him. It took him only one more step to realize that he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Stefa-a-ano~” A high pitched voice sang. It gave him chills, as the room suddenly looked much darker than before.

It was cold, freezing around him. He could see his own breath fading into the air.

Slowly, as if careful not to provoke a wild animal, he looked over his shoulder. The door disappeared. He knew this trick. Used it himself before. But it surely felt very different to experience it first-hand. The corridor lined much further back, but he couldn’t see it end, as his view was blocked by a long haired woman dressed in rags. She was nothing like his own creations. She was a work of art, that he had to admit, but not his.

Something in her seemed to revive, catching his stare as she moved. He almost didn’t register the jerk of her head, he nearly missed the warning and soon her whole body moved towards him at a ridiculous speed. Only then he realized he could no longer teleport and the chill finally truly hit him.

He grabbed the handle of the closest door and pulled it, hoping it would lead back to his own safe room. Instead of opening, the door shrieked. Terrified, he jerked away from it. The creature was at his back now. He could feel the coldness of her body on the bare skin of his neck.

“Stef-a-ano.” It sang into his ear and he ran.

He ran further down the corridor, faster and more determined than ever before. He could not shape this room. He could not use any of the powers he gained in Union. He felt so vulnerable.

There was a door at the end of the corridor. He saw it now. It was different from those at the sides. Bigger. Seeing them gave him hope and he sped up.

The creature running after him increased its speed too. It was… it _sang,_ he realized. He knew the melody, it was the one he chose to present his art with in the Union. Except she was not his art. She was crueler and colder. It made him feel something he didn’t feel for years. It made him _scared_.

He was so close to the door when he felt the woman’s long fingers on his back. The cold burned through all the covers of his clothes and freezed his skin. Wherever it touched him, he felt pain like he’d never felt before. It was worse than fire. Fire burns did not come this deep, not as close to the bone. He reached for the door. It was opening itself for him. With all grace he had left, he jumped in, hoping that whatever was on the other side would stop the creature.

His aggressive run technique got him to stumble over a threshold and he felt face down into a sandy floor. He would not believe how hard sand can be, until he hit it with his face. He felt his nose cartilage crack. Actually heard it. It was intense dump pain, not unknown to him, but still unwanted. Blood poured out and made sand stick to his face. Fast enough, he wiped it off with the back of his hand, before it stained his mouth.

Getting up he no longer felt cold, except the place on his back, where the creature touched him. It _freezed_ there. He tried to check it over his shoulder, but unluckily for him, it was on his blind side.

Still not capable of using any of the powers, he examined the place. It was a desert. A wasteland, one would say. The one that Dante used to express the void in an unbeliever's soul. This was not a place for a man like him, he thought. It was an absence of creation. It was worse than a labyrinth, because there you could at least hope to see a way out at the next corner. All he saw here was an endless plain.

Or maybe not?

Far behind him, he saw something more. For a moment, it was there and then it disappeared.

In a mere fraction of a second, the void moved, the sand dunes around him exploded and the world went cold once again. Sand was in the air, as if the wind was pointing it all at him. He got back to his knees, covering his face and eyes. Both of them mostly by reflex. Sand grains bit his skin where it was left uncovered. He was sure they would pierce his skin soon and travel deep into his flesh.

A sound of gunshot found its way to his ears. More followed, much faster and steadier this time. Even with his eyelids pressed to each other, he could see the strong flashing of the automats.

Involuntarily, he opened his eyes. Around him, the sand was calming and silhouettes of soldiers were lit by the fire of their guns. Behind them he saw a barbed wire traced trench digged into a sandstone, which made no tactical sense, but it hadn’t occured to Stefano because he wasn't a war tactic. The scenery looked good and that was what mattered to him. A military truck stood not far from him. Like it did the day he-

He recognised the place. It was the war field of the Middle East he lost his eye on.

“ _Stefano_.” Sang the voice, but when he turned towards it, the expected creature wasn't there. Instead of it was the allied soldier, moving forward the enemy line. A déjà-vu.

“Stop!” He yelled to warn the soldier, but the soldier was too focused on his target to notice the thin photographer beside him.

His insides tensed with a mix of fear, stress and, very much caused by the previous two, adrenaline.

“There’re mines-”

As it did before, the blow came from the ground. There was no camera to protect now. A little smarter from the lesson years ago, Stefano covered his remaining eye and voluntarily went to the ground. It was a bit wasteful, as the blow was identical to the original and there was no further damage the sharples heading towards his face could cause to his already mutilated eye and his scarred lower lip.

That was where the accuracy ended. Everywhere around him the sand blew up again. This time to the closest detail mirroring the explosion of a mine and it didn’t stop. His brain screamed for him to get to safety. But where? He attempted to open his eye to check for cover, but was forced by sand to close it immediately. The trench would work the best, but he didn't feel like risking hitting the barbed wire. The truck was it then.

Hoping not to hit any of the surrounding explosions, he crawled to the vehicle. His broken nose, triggered by the blast, poured blood straight onto his mouth and he had to stop to cover it with his scarf, before sand filled his nostrils **.** With his nose filled with blood, he had a hard time breathing through his mouth. Sand seemed to be finding way under the many layers of his clothes. When he didn't think he could bare it any longer, the feeling of unnatural chill hit him again.

 _Not now._ His mind screamed, he was so close to the truck now. But the creature wasn't merciful. Getting on his knees and ignoring the blows he could barely hear anymore over the ringing in his ears, he crawled to the truck. Behind him sand exploded and he sped up. Sand wasn’t the best surface to crawl on. It was unsteady. He now first-hand understood the struggle Lawrence of Arabia tried to interpret, that was overlooked due to audience’s thirst for human conflicts.

He crawled to the truck and didn’t hesitate to creep under it. He managed to get almost his whole body under, when the creature appeared. She grabbed his still uncovered leg and he yelped in surprise, as she started cruelly pulling him out of his hiding.

He tried his best to squirm, all his already questionable etiquette left behind, and kicked at the disturbingly strong and feminine creature. To his relief it really helped him to loosen her hold for a very short moment. But it was short termed. His speed couldn’t battle hers and before he could do any good with his newfound freedom, he was trapped again, in a much more forceful hold this time. Desperate, he grabbed on wires that were wrapped around the bottom of the car in an attempt to resist.

With his vision blinded by the sand, it wasn’t erratic that he didn’t realize that the wire was barbed. His leather gloves could stop the worst damage for the prize of their destruction. The wire tore them apart. He gritted his teeth when the wire started finding its way to his skin as the thorns of cursed rose into the fingers of the princess.

He wasn’t in the best physical condition to hold the resistance for too long and he knew it. The creature was mercilessly pulling him out and all of his body hurt from the stretch it gave him. The first to fall in the battle of Stefano and the creature was the wire, that tore apart. It couldn’t withstand the pressure, or maybe it pressed on some sharp part of the vehicle and got cut, Stefano wasn’t sure. The loose part shot straight into his face and hit his already mutilated half of his face, it cut a long way from his cheek to his eyebrow and be it the other side of his face, he would be fully blinded by now.

In the shock, Stefano loosened his hold on the truck and the creature was quick to pull him out of his shelter.

The time froze the moment she hugged his body. The sand flying from the explosions floated in the air and the fire itself was calming down. Everything felt cold and surreal. But again, what could be more surreal than a space created by your mind itself. Wasn’t mind the definition of surrealism?

If there was a freudian surrealism defined somewhere in scholar scripts, then Stefano’s situation was the figurative example. Except maybe for the part where the creature looked nothing like his mother and he was grateful for that. She pushed him to the ground and sat down on him. Her long hair fell across his chest and face. He had joked of a similar situations on multiple occasions and was told that these kinds of jokes weren’t funny more times than he bothered to count. Now, when he tried so himself, he must have to admit that there was nothing to laugh about, save for the ridiculousness of the situation.

Because of all the abnormality around him, Stefano couldn't help but be the most concerned about how uncomfortably close the creature sat to his crotch. She basically laid on his lap. The 3th-grader-mentality implication wasn't as uncomfortable as the terrible coldness of her body. The creature leaned over him and for a moment he thought she was about to kiss him. He even parted his lips, for tactical reasons of course. They always told them to defuse their fight if enemy was stronger, didn't they? The scarf he previously covered his face with fell down the moment the creature pushed him to the ground, so his face was uncovered and the creature had full access to it. Though she wasn’t after what he was willing to give. Instead she pulled out her uncharastically long tongue and licked the long cut across his cheek. As much as Stefano would appreciate this kind of treatment in any other situation, right now he was filled with disgust. Disgust and tensing fear, that pressed further down his chest every moment the creature’s tongue got closer to his empty eye socket. It gave him the terrible feeling of expected outcome of an already familiar situation.

Her tongue slowly found its way to the  scarred skin and for that moment he stilled, not even risking to breathe. But the creature, in its ironic mercy, just licked the torn lid and passed to the more blood producing part of his skin. She feasted on the blood and he let air into his lungs, before he could suffocate himself.

She moved her hips on his lap, only a little, but it was all he needed to feel his cock hardening, which was the worst possible distraction in this situation. It brought him nothing but shame of an unwanted boner. Having a chance, he would cross his legs, but with the creature on him, he didn’t want to trigger it any further. Silently hoping it will get bored of him, heat painted his face red and made the chill of air and the creature’s cold tongue almost unbearable. Stefano was Italian, he wasn't used to such intense cold.

He let the creature kiss his wound, focusing on everything but his crotch and her. When the creature was done with the freshest blood, it moved its awful tongue for the drying blood under his nose. As much as Stefano liked to scandalize, this was too disgusting even for him. He jerked his head and to his surprise, she really moved her tongue away. She pulled it back to her mouth and, looking straight to his eye, laughed. There was something uncomfortable in knowing she was capable of switching emotions. It made him sure she was conscious of her actions. Not just any blank doll, unlike his Obscura or The Guardian. It made him jealous of someone else’s capability of making the perfect creation. He felt like a mere demon comparing himself to a God. It made him terrified of her and whoever her master was. If she had any. She may be just another soul, lost in this realm. Corrupted by the power it held over them. The thought made him shiver and so did the look she gave him. Hunger and amusement was visible on her face.

She leaned back down on him and before he realized her intentions, his vision was blocked by her mouth. He understood his attempts of submission were worthless and struggled. He pushed on the creature’s torso and head with his hands, ignoring the sting the touch send through his arms. But she felt heavy and unmovable. He jerked his head to the side, his funcional eye down to protect it. The mutilated eye socket he was so protective of before now laid as an offering to the creature. Despite his fight, it took her a little effort to lift her hand and push him back into a more accessible position. His face hit the sand and he was sure that some of it got into his empty eye socket. If he survived, then that was going to be a problem to solve later.

Almost gently, the creature took his shut lids between her teeth. In an attempt to pull her off him, he pressed his hands against her face and pushed, this time she moved. She did so with this skin still between her teeth. He screamed at her when she tore his eyelids off and returned him his, right now unwanted, vision. He witnessed her crushing his skin with her front teeth in an obvious effort to provide him a performance, she chewed with her mouth open and he couldn’t look away. In some cruel irony, it made his cock fully hard and his face turned red with both fear and shame. Of all things that should concern him now, he was really afraid she may feel it and switch her interest to it. She rolled his skin over her mouth, with a cruel smile she made him watch her swallow. On that, his cock twitched and Stefano was on the edge of breakdown. There was no way she didn’t feel that.

He watched her carefully, waiting for her anger, scream, laugh or to give any other response to the shameful reactions of his body. But she seemed unconcerned about it. She just tightened her grasp on his head and lowered again. This time he knew well, that he wanted to fight whatever was coming. In disgust he pressed his hand over her blood stained mouth, knowing it was worthless, but trying anyway. She didn’t bother to react, she just kept lowering down on him. He could feel her tongue on his palm, finding its way under it. It was hard to keep it back, it was wet and like a snail it slid under his palm spreading her saliva on the already bloody slippery surface of her face. Soon his grasp was weakened by the slick of her saliva. She looked at him amused, as his hand slipped off her mouth.

The creature wasted no time on hesitating and rolled her whole tongue out, reaching for his uncovered eye. In last attempt of saving himself he covered his eye with his now wet hand. She didn't even bother playing with him anymore and simply took his hands in her inhumane hold and pulled them away, pinning both of his arms by his wrists to the sandy ground.

Her tongue found its way to his eyeball, it's coldness only made his shivers greater. He rolled his eye back, as if the pupil was the truly vulnerable part. It helped him a little, as the tongue enjoyed the way he squirmed and soon its tip slipped under his eye socket, enough for him to feel, but not enough to damage his vision. She soon found his pupil and covered it with her tongue. For a moment, which seemed like an eternity, his vision was blocked. Never in his life he was as terrified as in that moment, when her tongue pushed between the wall of his eye socket and the eyeball itself. There wasn’t enough space for it and soon he felt his eyeball giving up on its perfect shape entirely. Her tongue slipped under the eye. She helped herself by tangling her tongue around the nerve and only then she pulled back, taking his eye with her. He could still see her smile, as she pulled his eye to her open mouth, she did not stop him when he lifted his head closer to her to lower the painful press. It was more of a reflex than a way to actually stop the pain.

Maybe it was this forsaken place that made his sense so durable, but his sight stayed undamaged, he still saw her lips, they were painted by his blood. She opened her mouth and her teeth stained by his meat, if not for the terror it brought him, he would have appreciated the beauty of the picture. His cock surely did appreciate it, he did no longer bother with shame. If history taught him something, it was that men always found dangerous women appealing. The concept of Femme Fatale was deep inside the unconsciousness of men’s mind. From the old stories of beautiful forest fairies who spread their love for men in form of dance and the love for their meat in what came once they fell down exhausted, to the modern tales of beautiful but deadly escorts, that stand at the right arm of powerful men.

The last thing he saw before the world went dark for him was the red inside of her mouth, before she bit down and the optic nerve of his eye tore off. His head fell down, he no longer felt her on his lap. The heaviness of her body was still pinning him down, however, the coolness finally took over his nerves and any touch of her body was restrained by the cold.

He felt hopeless. This was the end for him. What was a photographer without his sight. Its absence made the world same as the eternity in the void, the very same one that he once felt and was terrified of now. He could pretend that there was something else, that there was a heaven or hell or that there was a way out of this cursed place, but deep inside he gave up on leaving The Union a long time ago. What was waiting for him out in the world anyway? A bunch of fake friends. Unfinished work. Half cleaned flat and, considering the time he spend in here, an accumulating debt and a very angry landlord.

The tradition says that first there is supposed to be light. It was no light that brought him back to consciousness. It was something simpler, something more human. Over the munching creature on top of him, he heard a voice. It wasn’t addressing him, nor it seemed close. However, it was the kind of  voice that gives one hope. The one so unwisely quickly associated with wifes, sisters and mothers. After years of social revolts, even in the age of information and the so called land of freedom, what brought him hope was the voice of an unknown woman.

“Anima!”

 


End file.
